[BL] Rules Of Desire: His Majesty's Secret-Chapter 41 - 39: The Judgment Day in Zarethrone [18+]

The bells of Zarethrone tolled five times. Each chime echoed like a pulse of something ancient and inescapable, rippling through the vast corridors and archways of the royal citadel. The entire palace seemed to still, caught in a breathless hush, as though the very walls were bracing for what was to come.

Today was Judgment by Desire.

The Day of Flesh.

The rumors had always sounded impossible. That in the kingdom of Zarethrone, justice wasn’t weighed by swords or sealed in scrolls. That one didn’t plead with tears or stand before a jury of peers. No. In Zarethrone, guilt was decided by the body’s surrender. Shame was peeled back with pleasure. Mercy, if earned, came through ecstasy.

And today, Nigel would witness it with his own eyes.

He stood in the grand gallery of the Hall of Craving, knees locked and fingers twitching at his side. He was dressed in formal black silks, required for new nobles attending their first royal judgment. But already, sweat clung to his back, and his heart thudded painfully in his throat.

The hall was cathedral-like in shape but bathed in a twisted opulence. Marble statues lined the archways, each carved in poses of surrender legs parted, heads thrown back, mouths open mid-moan. The air was thick with incense and lust. Perfumed smoke curled from braziers at the corners, mixing jasmine with something muskier, darker. It felt like standing inside a heartbeat.

At the center was the Judgment Table.

It was made of black stone, smooth and wide, and polished to a sinful gleam. Chains hung from each corner, not rusted or worn, but gilded, shining like ornaments. In its center lay the red oil-stain of past trials. Not blood. Not this time. But the kind of oil used to anoint skin, to slick fingers, to break down resistance until a moan replaced every denial.

Nigel shifted uneasily as the crowd filed in. Nobles draped in jewel-toned robes. Courtiers with bare shoulders and painted mouths. Foreign dignitaries whispering into jeweled fans. Some were masked. Some openly aroused. All waited.

Then the King appeared.

King Aldric walked with regal poise, robbed in crimson velvet, his chest partially bared, the insignia of Zarethrone burning bright across his collarbone. He took his place upon the obsidian throne above the hall, flanked by his advisors and guarded by silent soldiers.

And just below him sat the Prince.

Kaelith.

Draped in ivory and gold, he looked carved from restraint itself. Where others reclined with parted robes, Kaelith sat straight, jaw tense, hands gripping the carved arms of his chair. His hair was tied back, revealing sharp cheekbones and unreadable eyes. It was said he had never taken part in the Judgment Nights, only watched.

Some called it virtue.

Others said it was punishment.

But when Kaelith’s gaze swept across the room and landed on Nigel, something cold and electric coiled in the pit of Nigel’s stomach. The prince looked straight at him. Saw him.

Then, the first accused was brought in.

She was a noblewoman, her silk dress in tatters, pearls still clinging to her throat. Her crime: refusing a public request from the royal court for shared pleasure. A snub to the sacred rituals.

The Enactor entered next. A tall, powerful man, bare-chested, his skin oiled, his eyes outlined in kohl. He wore gloves of red lace, fingers flexing as he approached the table.

The noblewoman was laid bare on the black stone. Her wrists were shackled. Her legs spread. She didn’t resist. She just trembled, tears already spilling.

"Do you understand your crime?" the Enactor asked, voice smooth and deep.

She nodded, gasping, "I’m sorry... I was afraid."

The Enactor traced her stomach with a single finger. "Fear is not an excuse. In Zarethrone, pleasure is sacred. Denial is desecration."

Then, he began.

Soft touches at first. Feathered strokes across her thighs. Wine poured onto her chest, licked away slowly. Every graze, every whisper of skin, was calculated. Nigel watched as the woman’s fear gave way to trembling moans. Her back arched. Her lips parted.

And then it happened.

A single moan.

Guttural. Real.

The room exhaled in unison.

"She is forgiven," someone whispered. freeweɓnøvel~com

The crowd applauded lightly. A servant approached to help the woman down, her face dazed, her body slack.

Nigel stared, heart hammering. He didn’t know if he was horrified or aroused.

The next was a man. A former general accused of speaking ill of the prince in public.

He was made to kneel.

The Enactor stood behind him, caressing his shoulders, whispering something Nigel couldn’t hear. Then the punishment began—a mouth at his neck, a hand between his thighs, a slick toy pressed behind. The general moaned almost immediately, but the Enactor did not stop. He dragged it out. Teased. Denied. Until the man sobbed and begged.

When he finally spilt over, panting, a few courtiers turned away.

"Too quick," one murmured. "He enjoyed it. That’s not repentance."

The King did not smile.

"Guilty," he said aloud.

The guards took the man away. He would face further punishment. More severe.

Then came the last accused before intermission.

A virgin boy.

He was young. Delicate. Eyes wide as saucers. The hall went silent as he approached.

"Do you submit to the Court of Desire?" the Enactor asked.

The boy nodded, barely.

He was gently undressed. Laid on a silk cushion rather than the table. A pair of twin courtiers approached one male, one female.

They began slowly, kissing his hands, his chest, tracing his collarbone with lips and fingers.

The boy gasped. Flinched. But didn’t resist.

They licked. Teased. Breathed over his skin until his hips began to twitch.

But they never gave him what he begged for.

Not once.

The boy was left trembling, weeping, on the edge of release but never granted it. His body ached. His mouth mumbled broken pleas.

"He suffers. He understands," said one courtier.

The King nodded. "Innocent."

Nigel had to grip the railing. His own arousal pressed hot against the inside of his robes. Around him, nobles whispered. Some wept. Some touched each other.

Kaelith still hadn’t moved.

He watched it all with silent, seething composure.

And then the doors opened again.

A new prisoner entered. Not bound. Not trembling. Just defiant.

His name was whispered through the crowd.

"That’s the one who struck a royal guard."

The Enactor raised a brow. "You will be made to understand submission."

The man spat. "Do your worst."

The worst was gentle. That was Zarethrone’s cruelty. A thousand touches that didn’t bruise only broke.

They stripped him slowly. Made him kneel. Then bent him over the table. No lash. No gag. Just oil. Fingers. Tongues.

He screamed.

Moaned.

Begged.

And finally, sobbed.

His defiance cracked.

The hall roared.

"He is cleansed!"

Nigel felt dizzy. He staggered back, brushing against a column to keep upright.

A voice murmured behind him.

"Your first time?"

He turned. A woman in silver robes, mask half-off, smiled softly.

"Yes," Nigel whispered. "It’s..."

"Overwhelming."

He nodded.

"But unforgettable," she added. "And you’ll never see justice the same way again."

The bell rang again.

Intermission.

Nigel backed out of the hall. He needed air. Water. Anything to calm his thundering heart. But even as he stepped into the shaded corridor, he could still hear it—the sounds of judgment. The chorus of sighs. The hymns of heat.

This was Zarethrone.

And this was the Day of Desire.

And Nigel would never be the same.

Nigel stumbled back from the Circle of Desire, his breath hitching as the pleasure-soaked air still clung to his skin like sweat. His legs were shaky. What he’d just witnessed, experienced, was nothing like anything his world had prepared him for. The judgment had been carnal. Blistering. It was supposed to be sacred, but the raw intensity of it had twisted something deep inside him.

His chest rose and fell fast. His throat was dry, lips parted, fingers trembling as he reached to loosen the collar of his shirt. His trousers felt too tight. He needed air. Just—air.

He turned a corner away from the Circle into a shadowed passage that led nowhere in particular. The torchlight flickered along the obsidian walls, painting ripples on his skin.

"You look like you’re about to combust."

Nigel jumped slightly, eyes snapping toward the voice. A boy stood there around his age but draped in the kind of smooth, glistening fabric only the initiates of desire wore. His body was lithe, lean muscle visible through the half-open robe that clung to damp skin. His voice was velvet, edged with heat. His eyes... they lingered too long on Nigel’s lips.

"I just need air," Nigel muttered, pressing his palm against the wall.

"You sure that’s all you need?" The boy stepped closer, and his scent warm, earthy, spiced wrapped around Nigel like a slow, sultry fog. "Because you look like you’re burning from the inside."

Nigel swallowed. "I said I’m fine."

"You’re lying."

Nigel’s head whipped around, lips parting to protest, but the boy had already closed the distance. His fingers gently brushed the back of Nigel’s hand. It was an innocent touch, but the spark it set off in Nigel’s chest made his knees weak. The boy leaned in, lips ghosting near his ear.

You watched the judgment, didn’t you?" he whispered. It stirs more than the soul... doesn’t it?

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